


Faithful Friends, Old and New

by DixieDale



Category: The Girl from U.N.C.L.E., The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-18
Updated: 2019-02-18
Packaged: 2019-10-30 17:34:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17833046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DixieDale/pseuds/DixieDale
Summary: Maybe it's time to say goodbye to an old friend.





	Faithful Friends, Old and New

Just back from Tel Aviv, they were to have dinner together, then go to a jazz club Illya liked, then head home for a drink and some private time - a celebration of a mission successfully accomplished. Napoleon had finished his reports first, said he had some errands to run but would meet Illya at Venara's, the little restaurant April Dancer had introduced them to. 

Illya arrived first, sat there at a corner table, ordering nothing, keeping an eye on the door, waiting impatiently for his partner's arrival. Napoleon had talked about splitting a Chateaubriand with all the trimmings; Illya thought about how good that sounded, found his mouth watering at the picture formed in his mind. They'd been on the go for the past week, grabbing whatever was available, when it was available, but nothing of a very substantial nature, nothing particularly appetizing. Now, thinking about a nice thick steak, perfectly prepared, juices oozing out when it was cut into, surrounded by the crisp vegetables, accompanied by those hot yeasty rolls Venara's was known for, he smiled in anticipation. Of course, there would be something sweet to follow, perhaps a caramel flan, perhaps a raspberry torte. And later, back in his apartment or perhaps in Napoleon's, something just as sweet, even more satisfying, perhaps because of the very long time it had taken for them to get to this point of being partners in more than just work. He glanced at the doorway once again, then at his watch.

An hour later, with Napoleon still not there, he'd ordered an appetizer and vodka. Afterwards, only refills of the vodka had appealed, though a watchful waiter had brought him a basket of those yeast rolls and a small pot of fresh butter.

Napoleon still hadn't shown up, and a discreet check with his communicator had gotten a slightly embarrassed, rather distracted, "uh, yes, I'm sorry, Illya, but something came up, business, you know. I'll see you at the office tomorrow. Probably not too early, though."

A gently inquiring female voice in the background told Illya what had come up, and he disconnected without even answering. Now he ordered more vodka, and after a certain hesitation, the waiter had brought it.

Now, he wasn't alone anymore, though he couldn't quite remember when that had changed. 

"Mark? April?" He said, peering over his half-empty glass, his eyes blinking at them like an owl's.

"We're here, mate. How about we order some dinner? Man does not live by vodka alone, you know. What sounds good, or, considering how late it is, what does the kitchen have left is probably more like it," Mark said, motioning to the waiter and giving him a few quick instructions. 

The sheer despair, the look of abandonment in his eyes made them want to find his partner and deal out some stern retribution, no matter how senior he was to them. How Napoleon could be so blind, so thoughtless, they didn't know. All they could do, at least for now, was to pick up the pieces, give comfort where comfort was needed. For now, they could pretend they'd just happened on him by accident, that Lucas, who managed Venara's, hadn't called them when he'd seen Illya trying to drown himself in that bottle after he'd been stood up. For that they could thank Lucas's son, that ever so observant waiter who'd seen them all here before many a time, who'd been close enough to catch that brief interaction on the communicator and understood what it signified. For now, they would see what they could come up with in the way of comfort. As for Napoleon, well, if he was able to get it up for whichever woman he was with, with all the negative vibes flowing his way, it would be a miracle!

There had been no sex, nothing even approaching that as they'd cocooned him in his apartment later, more like three puppies curled together for warmth. But there HAD been comfort in their warm arms and the sound of their soft breathing; there had been a sense of belonging with someone, belonging to someone. He'd awakened alone, as they must have known he'd prefer, but with the memories of their caring warming him. It wasn't the same as if Napoleon had kept his word, had kept their appointment, no, but it was far more than he would have had otherwise. 

It was enough to keep him from turning to what he considered his most enduring, most faithful friend, that straight razor in his medicine cupboard. He'd never told Napoleon that, that the razor was an old friend, one he'd carried with him for years, a faithful friend ready to offer him a final comfort should it be needed, not even when his partner had twitted him about using such an old-fashioned method of shaving. He now thought about the night before, Napoleon finding other, better things to do with his time, and again decided it was good to have an old friend; that you could ask things of an old friend like that that you couldn't of anyone else. Of course, Mark and April, newer friends, it would seem, though he wasn't quite sure when and how that had happened, had rather skewed the equation, but the basic concept was still valid.

He lay on his back staring at the ceiling. There was a new crack up there, he noted absently. One more crack, adding to the maze of cracks already there, ready to shower him with white gritty particles like all the rest did on occasion. Just like last night had been one more crack in what he'd thought he and Napoleon had been building together. How many cracks would that ceiling withstand before it came crashing down? How many cracks could THEY withstand before even their working partnership was in danger? 

He thought again of that razor, gave a bitter laugh at the irony of it all. He was a trained agent, had faced down and won out over many a foe, fully expected to die at the hands of Thrush or some other enemy and accepted that with a calm stoicism. Yet, here he was, brought to a level of despair he'd never felt before, by a love he'd never expected to feel. "Like some lovesick schoolboy!" he told himself in disgust, frustrated at letting himself trust, letting himself love anyone at all, but especially someone so free with their attentions as Napoleon. He flushed, thinking about the times he'd shaken his head at all the wistful sighs and longing glances his partner had been given by the women at Headquarters, not comprehending how they could be so foolish as to wear their hearts on their sleeves, especially for someone known for his inconstancy; it was a little daunting to realize he was doing much the same.

At the office he'd busied himself in reviewing the updates left in his in-box, double-checking the reports that would need Napoleon's signature along side his own. Anything to keep from watching the clock on the wall, to avoid thinking about where his partner was, where he'd spent the night and with whom. None of that really mattered, after all, the who, the where. The important thing was that Napoleon had set aside the opportunity to spend the night with him in favor of spending it elsewhere.

How many times had this happened in the past six months, the six months since they'd become partners in more than just the one way? With the paperwork completed and the next briefing not being feasible til Napoleon wandered in, he pulled a pad over to him and tried to make a chart. Perhaps doing that, looking at it with cold objectivity, it would help in some way to reconcile him to the truth he was trying not to accept.

Of course, being Illya, it wasn't just the missed opportunities that ended up getting included in that chart; it was much more complex when he completed it.

Odd, when he looked it analytically, leaving the emotion aside, it formed a clear pattern. When they were on a mission, unless it was part of the job, Napoleon now kept the extracurricular romancing and flirting to a minimum, and there had been no instances of his actually engaging with someone else. When they were not on a mission, but on their own and away from New York, he would hardly let Illya out of his arms, much less his sight. But here, in New York, it seemed their plans for spending time together were being increasingly interrupted, overridden and set aside by the womanizing flirt Napoleon had been a year ago. Patterns. Patterns developed when there was a logic behind the data. Where was the logic, the cause behind this pattern he saw in front of him?

Being a scientist at heart, that poked at him, demanding he determine the answer, and speculating was a waste of time when the answer might be more readily available. When Napoleon stuck a sheepish head in the door around 11:30, Illya was ready with a demand of his own. 

"I want the names and circumstances around these dates, Napoleon, including the one last night," as Illya rattled off the short list he'd prepared. 

At the incredulous, even slightly indignant look he received from his partner, he firmed his jaw, "and yes, of course, I have a reason for wanting to know. Come, look at this," motioning to the hand-drawn chart on his desk. "Is this my imagination? Am I reading this wrong?"

At first Napoleon didn't, couldn't believe what Illya was trying to point out, but the evidence was just too concrete. It took awhile, going back to his pocket calendar, his personal expense reports, stirring his memory, but finally he sat back in his chair, anger now starting to show in his eyes. What he and Illya had together, not just their partnership in the field, but the new relationship, was important to him - along with his job, one of the most important things in his life, increasingly more so all the time. He was annoyed with himself that he hadn't picked up on this sooner, worried at the hurt he could now see Illya was trying hard not to show. The thought that someone would deliberately plan something like this was almost incomprehensible to him.

"Someone's playing with us? Is that what you think?"

"Perhaps. Someone who has perhaps seen, perhaps understands too much, and who is trying to, what is the term, put a spoke in the wheel?" Illya was being very careful not to make accusations, and he wasn't quite ready to ask whether Napoleon had made those choices because it truly was what he wanted. The time might come for that question, but his partner's attitude now seemed to indicate otherwise. 

"April knows, I think, but she wouldn't do this. Mark? He wouldn't care one way or the other, and he wouldn't do anything this underhanded either."

"No, but Mark knows everyone, hears things you and I wouldn't hear. Perhaps he and April would have some ideas?"

A quick phone call and the four were having an impromptu lunch in the small private room at the back of Venara's. 

The two younger agents' visible annoyance with Napoleon lessened, then died away when they heard what the other two had to say.

"And last night, Napoleon? What happened there?" April asked, still not a hundred percent sure Napoleon should be let off the hook entirely.

"I picked up my suits from Del Florio, went by the bank, stopped by the post office to mail a few bills. Headed home to change. Got a call from Louise in Communications that Jeannine Moreau was trying to reach me, some new information about the Omaha affair. Instructions from Waverly were for me to meet her, go over the material, then report back to the office for debriefing immediately thereafter, no matter what time that might be. Supposedly she'd been insistent that she didn't want to talk to anyone else. I got to the meeting spot, she was late, and when she showed up, she demanded dinner and drinks and dancing before she'd spill the information, supposedly to throw any observers off the track. It was two in the morning before I left her at her hotel, got back to the office, did the reports, met with Clausen and did the debriefing. It was close to five when we finished, and I headed home to clean up and catch a little sleep before coming in to the office."

"And the other times, mate? What happened then?" Mark asked.

Napoleon frowned, then flushed to realize how similar the circumstances had been. "I know it really makes me look like the super agent of the year, but in looking back, the setups were different, but still, similar in a lot of ways. Last minute reason for me to be elsewhere, all seemingly on the up and up. But who? And why?"

Illya had been quiet through all of that, but now spoke up. "Who knows, about us, I mean? I know you do, Mark, and you, April," getting a casual nod from each of them. It was easy to see that, yes, they did know, and no, it wasn't a problem for them.

Mark thought it over then shrugged. "Don't know of anyone else, not offhand. Not like you're flashing it around. You spend a lot of time together, sure, but that's what partners do. I know it's what April and I do. If you're partners in the field and strangers off, that's not going to work well. Sooner or later you start missing things, lose the link you need. We've all seen that. Jacobs and Duval, they're a prime example. They were tight as ticks til not too long ago; now they're stiff with each other, keep their own company. It's only a matter of time before the disconnect causes a disaster. Surprised Waverly hasn't called them on it," Mark replied. 

"Do you think this is coming from the top? That this is Waverly's way of intervening, trying to nip this in the bud? Doesn't quite seem his style, but with him, you never know."

Napoleon's jaw was rock-hard. "Well, I think it's time to find out. I have a meeting with him in a couple of hours. I think there's going to be another item on the agenda."

Nothing they could say would dissuade him, and he turned down Illya's offer to go with him. 

"No, it's one of those 'Heir to the Throne' meetings, and there'd be no reason for me to take you with me. Let's not show our hand, not yet. Let me talk to Waverly first."

 

Waverly was not pleased, that much was obvious. Oh, he didn't much care about certain aspects, but others he found highly annoying.

"Mr. Solo, my lack of prurient interest in your and Mr. Kuryakin's personal lives is astounding only in its depth. To paraphrase Mrs. Patrick Campbell, "I don't care what you do, as long as you aren't doing it in the streets and frightening the horses." I certainly would not be going to these devious lengths to limit your interaction; I would simply deliver an ultimatum that it is to cease. Please notice I have not done so, and for now, as long as it does not interfere with the performance of your duties, I do not intend to do so. However, I WOULD suggest you find out who is being so impertinent as to toy with you; who knows what other mischief they might decide come up with!"

"Then it was NOT on your instructions that I was told to meet with Jeannine Moreau last night? As Louise in Communications told me?" Napoleon asked, just to be sure.

"Must I repeat myself, Mr. Solo? Very well, no, I issued no such instructions. Now, go, find out what's behind this nonsense and let's get our minds back on the job at hand! I'll need you and Mr. Kuryakin at your best when you leave for Warsaw on Friday."

Next stop, Louise in Communications, only she swore the orders came from Waverly. 

"Just like usual, the instructions come in over the machine, get delivered to us, we carry them out," she'd told him, obviously puzzled at his questions.

"Over the machine," he mused, looking over at the small printer located in the corner, busy spitting out small rectangles of paper, the individual pieces being torn off by the runners and delivered to the recipient indicated. 

Back in his office, "could someone have hacked into the internal communications?"

"Perhaps, or perhaps it was someone who has legitimate authorization to be sending messages via that method, but who has found a way to conceal their true origin. How difficult would that be?"

They had to admit it wouldn't be all that difficult, and Napoleon decided that was something that needed to change. When you sat down and thought about it, all it would take was one such person to create total chaos in the organization!

"What about Jeannine Moreau? She did show up, did insist on spending a lot of time with you that night. She did actually have information on the Omaha affair." 

April was tapped on the shoulder to talk to Jeannine; they'd worked on a job together a few months ago, had got along well.

 

Jeannine pondered as she sipped at the iced tea she'd prepared right before she'd answered April Dancer's call. "April, you know, that's an interesting question. I had the information ready to drop by Headquarters, had made all the arrangements through Communications, but then at the last minute had a call that there was a change of plans. In fact, the call came in so close to the time I was told to meet Napoleon, there was no way I could get changed and make it all the way across town. I ended up being quite a bit late. And yes, my instructions were to get him to take me for dinner and drinks and dancing; to keep him active and in the public view for as long as I could. Something about a Thrush observer, though I was never given any details."

"Who, Jeannine? Who called you?" April pressed.

"Why, Louise Douglas, in Communications. You know her, probably, but maybe not; she tends to steer clear of the field agents anymore. She was going with Luke Duval for awhile, but they broke up, and she's been a little crisp with all of Section II ever since."

Napoleon and Illya headed out to Warsaw the next day, with no time to question the busy Ms. Douglas. However, Mark and April managed to corner Luke Duval for a not-so-casual conversation, which proved most illuminating. Luke had been quite the ladies man for as long as Mark had known him, though never dating any one woman for long. Mark had never questioned that; he himself made a habit of avoiding anything serious in the way of relationships, and short term dating was ideal for that goal while still some opportunity for a social life.

The pleasant looking, though by no means handsome, Duval had flushed at the questions, but upon hearing the circumstances had groaned and nodded in understanding. While the two young agents had been careful not to name names, still the implications were clear.

"Yes, that doesn't surprise me all that much. We'd only dated a couple of times, me and Louise, and nothing heavy, just drinks the first time, the symphony and dinner the second, but she was already hinting about meeting the family, a big wedding, about kids, the whole shebang. I backpedalled like crazy, tried to let her know I wasn't interested in anything serious without being a real jerk about it, and didn't call her again. Then, she shows up at my apartment, has a real hissy fit. You see," and he flushed, "Ken was there, and Louise got wise to . . . . Well, to me and Ken being more than partners, you know? She threatened that while she couldn't do anything to STOP me from making such a fool of myself, that she wouldn't stand for being made a fool of, that she wouldn't stand for me rubbing her nose in it. It was like I'd left her at the altar or something! Said that if we made any 'obscene public displays' here in New York, she'd out us both, go straight to Waverly and we'd both be out on the streets. She made it clear that she included having dinner together, catching a show, any interaction at all, all that came under 'obscene public displays'. We've gone strictly off the radar for the past few months, ignoring each other totally as far as anyone could tell, except on assignments, even sneaking through back alleys to get to each other's flats."

Mark raised his brows at that, April shaking her head. And here they'd been worried the Duval/Jacobs team was suffering from LACK of personal interaction! Well, they WERE, of course, just not of their own volition.

"Well, she can't be allowed to continue creating trouble, and considering she's been taking Mr. Waverly's name in vain in her mischief making, I doubt he's going to look kindly on her actions."

Duval went pale, gulped, "you have to tell him? I mean, about Ken and me?"

Mark gave a grim smile, "we'll not mention names if we can avoid it. But from what I've heard, he's not likely to make a stink, not as long as you don't let it affect the job. I imagine as long as you're discreet, the odds are good. Besides, cutting yourselves off from each other on your down time, that's bad for any kind of partnership, no matter yours. Well, WE aren't going to go blasting it from the rooftops, I can promise you that, right, April?"

 

The question was whether to wait til Napoleon and Illya returned before taking Louise Douglas aside for an interview. However, since they were expected back on Wednesday, it was decided to wait. 

The reports were written, the debriefing over and done with, and the usual dinner at Venara's planned. Somehow, it wasn't a surprise when the message came from Communications for Napoleon Solo to take over a milk run to the far side of Queens, one that would take him most of the night. Luke Duval and Ken Jacobs, tapped in advance for the possibility, were more than happy to take that on for him, while Napoleon and Illya enjoyed a peaceful dinner together. It had been decided the farther they were from the epicenter of the take-down, the better for everyone concerned. Mark Slate and April Dancer handled removing a screeching Louise Douglas from the Communications Center, taking her into custody, delivering her to a secure cell for questioning and, most likely, deprogramming. Hopefully the deprogramming would remove not only the memory of UNCLE and all of its operations, but also her memories of Luke Duval, Ken Jacobs, Illya Kuryakin and Napoleon Solo. Her ingrained attitudes would not be affected by the procedure, but at least by removing the memories, those she'd targeted might be protected from any further such attempts. That wouldn't help the next poor souls who came under her scrutiny, but there was a limit to what could be done about that.

"So it wasn't really all that difficult for her. She kept her ear to the ground, knew when you were getting back from a job, knew your routine of having dinner in celebration, got access to your calendars. Using the spare machine in the corner, she managed to rearrange a few of the codes, and could type in messages on HER machine that relayed over there, for rerouting so that they looked like they were coming from any number of places. Then, when the messages printed out on the printer, the runners would deliver those special ones direct to her, and she could act as if she was just doing her job from then on," April explained to Napoleon and Illya over a bottle of wine.

Mark shuddered, "can you imagine what a Thrush mole could do with a setup like that? Think some major changes are needed in that department! Oh, by the way, Illya, I found one I think you'll like; mine does a fine job for me, anyway," reaching over to the chair where his coat was draped over the seat. 

Illya opened the small box and nodded, "yes, I'm sure it will be fine. Thank you, Mark."

"A new razor?" Napoleon teased as he glanced at the picture on the cover. "You're finally giving up that antique you have in your medicine cabinet?"

Illya gave him a slightly shy smile, "it has been a trusty friend, but I think perhaps it is time to retire it in favor of my new friends."

If they thought that was a rather odd statement, no one took all that much notice, and they finished the rest of the wine, happy just being in each other's company.


End file.
